


The Chain

by pied_pollo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Dark!Ainsley, Gen, Give Gil a Break 2k21, Major Character Injury, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Missing Persons, Only mentioned once but just to be safe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killers, Spoilers for s01e20: Like Father..., because 2k20 isn't working out so far, because i have no plot ideas, discord prompt, kind of on hold, that awkward moment when you're solving your sister's murder that your sister committed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Tonight, Channel 14 news has lost one of their own. This is Neal Fischer live at the candlelit vigil service for Ainsley Whitly, who disappeared from her apartment only two nights ago. The investigation is ongoing, but an inside source within the NYPD tells us they are, quote, “not hopeful” that the renowned investigative journalist is still alive…Based on Jameena's Discord prompt: Ainsley and John build a relationship and John somehow brainwashes Ainsley into believing that her trial is to kill Malcolm and she’s confused and alone and she really likes killing and it comes really, really close...but sibling love prevails.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 24





	1. Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



* * *

_can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?_   
_a smile from a veil? do you think you can tell?_   
_did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?_   
_hot ashes for trees? hot air for a cool breeze?_   
_cold comfort for change? did you exchange_   
_a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?_

* * *

Malcolm Bright’s only thought as he stood in front of his sister’s altar was: _you would love this._

It was the truth. The weather was behaving exactly as the weather _should_ behave during an afternoon memorial service: pale sky dressed in dark clouds; light mist; thin, hopeful beams of sunlight cutting through the malaise, more white than yellow. A thick fog hung shyly at the edge of the clearing, like it wouldn’t dare to come closer so as not to provide _too_ ominous a setting, but enough for others to acknowledge its existence. 

In short, the whole funereal atmosphere was not just somber, but _ambiguous_ , like the end of a sentence that trails off to an inauspicious close, left for the receiver to decide what was meant to be said. Ainsley would certainly approve.

After the service was over, each of the attendees departed the little shrine, one by one, in an almost bored manner, like they had no use to be here now that the theatrics had passed. They weren’t mourners so much as they were spectators, ogling and gaping at Ainsley’s candid photograph like a museum tour-- _to your left, Ainsley Whitly, the Surgeon’s daughter. No flash photography allowed. If you listen closely, you might be able to hear the echo of this lost girl’s screams from beyond the graaaave!_

The more Malcolm observed this morbid curiosity of the people’s, the more sick he felt. In the distance he could hear reporters, staying respectfully away from the service, but talking loud enough for all to hear.

_Tonight, Channel 14 news has lost one of their own. This is Neal Fischer live at the candlelit vigil service for Ainsley Whitly, who disappeared from her apartment only two nights ago. The investigation is ongoing, but an inside source within the NYPD tells us they are, quote, “not hopeful” that the renowned investigative journalist is still alive…_

Fischer was out of place here; too chippy and bright in his crisp blue suit, too quick to refer to Ainsley in the past-tense. He was obviously new at the job; only rookies would be so enthused at the prospect of covering the missing persons case of someone the public kind-of-sort-of knew, even if the circumstances of the crime scene were foreboding enough to make for decent press, even if their victim fit the young-pretty-bright-capable-whole-life-ahead-of-her profile to a T. What’s there to work with after you get past the bloodstained carpet and family sob story?

_...As many know, Ainsley was the daughter of the notorious serial killer Dr. Martin Whitly, otherwise known as “The Surgeon”, who terrorized the streets of New York City all throughout the 1980s to the late 1990s. It is believed that during this time, Whitly slaughtered as many as twenty-three men, women, and children..._

There it was. Why did Fischer feel compelled to include their father? Malcolm took a deep breath and resisted the urge to plug his ears with his index fingers, vouching to stuff his shaking hands in his coat pockets instead.

_...Ainsley’s service is open to the public, and the NYPD has set up a tip line should anyone have information on her potential whereabouts. This is obviously a very sudden and tragic loss for Ainsley’s friends and family, as Wendy McCormick will tell us. Wendy, I understand that you and Ainsley were quite close._

Rubberneckers were one thing; Malcolm was familiar with people who loved exaggerating their relationship with victims, people who injected themselves into the investigation to make a name for themselves. But at a vigil? In front of the victim’s family? Malcolm started towards McCormick and Fisher, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, but he before he could say anything, someone moved forward to envelop him in a tight hug, subtly holding him back.

“It’s not worth it,” Gil whispered into Malcolm’s ear. 

“She doesn’t even _know_ Ainsley,” Malcolm hissed back.

“This is a public vigil,” Gil reminded him, keeping his voice low and controlled, “and people come out like this all the time. Just let it go.”

“Get your hands off me.”

“Calm down, Bright.”

Malcolm struggled against Gil’s hold, but it was futile. The latter wasn’t budging; instead, he tightened his embrace, muttering a litany of reassurances that fell on deaf ears. Eventually, Malcolm stopped fighting, but Gil kept his arms wrapped around him.

After a beat, Malcolm opened his mouth, but Gil cut him off: “No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” Malcolm argued.

“You can’t be involved in this investigation,” Gil said, “it’s not your job.”

“I can help,” Malcolm insisted. “Everyone’s saying that finding Ainsley alive is unlikely, but there wasn’t a body!”

“Kid, there was a lot of DNA. Blood, hair…” Gil swallowed. “...flesh.”

“Not enough evidence to prove her death! You’re probably looking for a--”

“ _Stop_ ,” Gil interrupted gently. “I know you want to find your sister, but even if I needed a profiler, you’re way too close to this, Bright.”

By now, Helen McCormick had given her statement, and Fischer and his team were left packing the cameras back in their respective casings. A few more minutes later, the news truck left, off to find something else to cover. The spectators followed in suit, trailing away in their cars with the windows rolled down. Malcolm watched them talk to one another as they drove off.

“Maybe we should’ve made T-shirts,” he remarked bitterly.

Gil sighed. “Your mother needs you.” He pat Malcolm on the shoulder before stepping back. “Get some rest.”

“You know I won’t.”

Another sigh. “I’ll update you on the case myself. In the meantime...just take care of yourself, Bright. Please.”

One more time, Malcolm tried, desperately: “Gil.”

“I’m sorry, kid. I wish there was something I could do, really.”

After a moment, Malcolm just half-nodded, dropping his head to stare down at the wet grass squelching underfoot. The rain was thickening now; a sign for mourners and rubbernecked spectators alike to file unceremoniously out of the clearing. Malcolm tipped his head back to let the rain fall on his face, listening to it drip onto the bouquets of flowers, listening to it hiss out the lit candles, listening to it _plunk-plunk_ against the canvas easel, where Ainsley’s playfully mysterious eyes teased everyone, _guess what_ , but her coy half-smile remained stationary, lips pursed, revealing nothing.

Overhead, a clap of thunder rippled through the sky, briefly breaking the dismal mood with an angry flash of lightningbefore settling back into gloomy sobriety. Malcolm turned on his heel and followed his mother into the car without bothering to open an umbrella.

The last of the candle flames sputtered out in the storm, plunging Central Park in near-darkness. The only one left at the memorial site was a woman whom no one recognized, but she was not a spectator, and she, like Malcolm, knew that Ainsley had enjoyed the service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit, this was not exactly how I expected things to go when writing this prompt. Nevertheless! I hope you enjoy the things to come.


	2. Jailhouse Rock

* * *

_shifty henry said to bugs, "for heaven's sake_   
_no one's looking, now's our chance to make a break"_   
_bugsy turned to shifty and he said, "nix nix_   
_i wanna stick around a while and get my kicks."_

* * *

**THEN**

While faking your death _seems_ like a simple feat, the practical application doesn’t _quite_ live up to the theory.

For one thing, Ainsley was not impressed by the way she looked as a brunette.

The box of dye had been labelled _Chestnut Flash_ , but it came out with less _chestnut_ than expected, and now Ainsley was stuck with a sad, dark crop that did not suit her at _all._

Still, a bad haircut was better than no haircut at all. Ainsley stuffed all evidence of the box dye into her purse to dispose of later, and set to work on speculation. What blood type was she? How much did she have to spill to make it look convincing? Did her apartment complex have any security cameras? Was Incognito Mode enough to hide this sort of browser history?

God, _Gone Girl_ had made this look so easy.

Money wasn’t a problem--not yet, anyway, and even if it were, there were more important things to think about. Ainsley calculated that her disappearance would only matter for a week or so, before the sappy interviews and stock-image reports were lost under the piles of more interesting events.

More good news: thunderstorms the entire week. People wouldn’t be out looking for her, and even if they were, this was New York--how many blonde women moved through the city each day, heels clipping as they desperately raced the rain? They wouldn’t be the only thing making a search party hard, either; Ainsley knew that police and do-gooders alike would have trouble navigating their way across town when angry commuters blocked the streets and swerved to avoid rain-slicked pedestrians.

The best thing about being a journalist was that Ainsley knew the system like the back of her hand.

In a potential murder case, there was only one thing more interesting than the crime for the media to latch onto, and that was the suspect. The press had a tendency to jump to conclusions and sink their teeth into one person, nailing them and broadcasting their lives for days until someone showed their face as a more attractive killer. Unfair, yes, but journalism was rarely fair; rather, it was bloody and ugly, disgusting and raw.

Ainsley loved it.

But who to frame? That was the tricky part. Ainsley needed...someone liable. Someone she could twist, and someone that her colleagues would suck dry without hesitation, because dead girls do no wrong, but their ex-boyfriends certainly could.

She still had keys to Jin’s apartment.

It was an easy decision, and an easier task: her blonde, torn-out hair in a box, tucked conspicuously behind a half-open air grate. Malcolm did always talk too much about killers taking trophies such as this, and even if Jin was able to find it before the police did, what could he do? It would be even more suspicious if he threw it out, or lied about it.

Now that there was someone to blame, the rest was relatively easy. A quick search online revealed that Ainsley could, in fact, purchase some AB negative blood with cash, late at night-- _no questions asked!_ Suddenly, disappearing in a lazy, distracted world became easier and easier.

 _Splash._ Three pints of blood pooled on the bed, smeared across the floor, staining the carpet. _Smash._ Her broken phone sank to the bottom of the Hudson River.

Then the next thing on the list: create a new identity, more than the poorly cut hair and tragic box dye. There was only one person who could help with this, which meant Ainsley had to make a visit.

A fake ID was printed-- _Jessie Ingrid, Smith & Ingrid Law Firm_\--and a taxi was hailed. Minutes later, the cab pulled to a stop outside Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. Ainsley moved briskly, spoke curtly, and promptly turned her back on Martin Whitly’s cell, choosing instead to strut down the narrow hallways until she reached the comfortable enclosure of John Watkins.

“I’m allowed to speak to my client alone,” she snapped at the security guard, who nodded and left without sparing a second glance. Watkins, meanwhile, was seated on the floor, his back to the door. After a moment, the door closed with an echoey _clang_. Ainsley collected herself and Watkins turned to face her.

“It’s been a minute,” he remarked, rising to his feet. “Love the new wig.”

“I don’t have long,” Ainsley replied.

Luckily--unlike Ainsley’s father--Watkins went down to business: “Did you do everything?”

“Up to where you said,” Ainsley confirmed.

Watkins nodded approvingly. “Well, then, I suppose you’ll be needing these.” He tipped his head towards the bookshelf, sparsely occupied and coated in a thin layer of dust. Ainsley made her way over to the shelf and slid out a large book. It was hollow on the inside.

“How did you get this past security?” Ainsley wondered aloud.

“Martin’s not the only one with connections,” Watkins replied breezily, “and even after Endicott bit the dust, there wasn’t much the facility could do about adjustments. Kind of a pity, really. I was wondering how long Martin would last in genpop, but I guess we’ll never know.”

Ainsley opened the hollow book to reveal credentials--passports, driver’s licenses, yearbook photo stickers. “How suspicious are they?” she asked nonchalantly.

Watkins waved his hand in a _so-so_ gesture. “They’re skeptical, I will admit. Not everyone’s _lawyers_ call every week.”

After some digging, Ainsley plucked a woman’s license card from the pile of goods. “Rachel Kane,” she read aloud, and then added: “Who is she?”

Watkins hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice, as if the guards could still hear him even after leaving the room. “Martin likes to brag,” he said, “and I don’t blame him. Twenty-three is quite the number, isn’t it?”

“How many?” Ainsley asked, equally quiet.

Watkins shrugged. “Enough.” He leaned forward, letting the taut rope attaching him to the wall keep him from falling. “You look like her. Well, you’ll need to curl your hair, of course.” Then, after an almost concerned pause: “Are you sure you want to disguise yourself as…?”

“Why not?” Ainsley spread four of the passports in one hand like a folding fan, flapping them slightly. “There’s plenty of material to work with.” And after Watkins still looked hesitant, she added: “ _Trust_ me, please. Literally _no one_ cares about the victims of serial killers once they’re dead, not really. We can use this.”

After a thoughtful moment, the corners of Watkins’s mouth curled into an eerie grin. “That’s my girl.”

Ainsley returned the gesture, but unlike Watkins, there was no warmth in her smile. “I have something for you.”

Watkins beamed. “I know you do.”

After a quick glance at the door--no unwanted loiterers--Ainsley reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a glass angel--small enough to slip past security, light enough so as not to raise suspicion. 

Sentimental? Maybe. Dramatic? Absolutely. But the statue wasn’t the important thing.

After a moment of fiddling, Ainsley let the angel drop, sending gray shards skidding across the floor, spiraling in every direction. Watkins didn’t flinch at the crash; rather, he glanced down at the razor blade that spun to a stop at his feet, just past the red tape.

“You’re welcome,” Ainsley said, and walked out the door.

“Coney Island,” Watkins called as she left. “Give me twenty hours.”

“I’ll see you there.”

No one paid attention to Ainsley as she walked away; too many guards were hurrying towards Watkins’s cell. Overhead, a siren went off and the emergency lights flipped on, coating the hallways in scarlet light. Ainsley slipped out the door of the hospital without anyone noticing she was gone.

Twenty hours? That was more than needed, but hey--maybe she could still make it to the candlelit vigil in Central Park, say her silent goodbyes to Malcolm and the others.

For a brief moment, Ainsley wondered if Malcolm was going to be okay without her, but the thought vanished as soon as it popped into her head--he had better things to deal with, and so did she. Plus, even if Malcolm was going to be devastated, it’s not like Ainsley cared. He’s a profiler; he should’ve figured that out by now.

Then again, her brother has a history of forgetting things.

* * *

**NOW**

Outside, it started to rain. Darkness was descending over New York, and Ainsley skirted a building before opening her umbrella. In the distance, a bus rolled to a stop. She paid with cash.

The bus was relatively empty, save for a few people messing with their phones. Ainsley pulled out a pocketbook from her purse before tucking the latter under her seat.

Another thing about being in the media: you get your makeup done in seconds. Now that she had about seventeen hours, Ainsley took her time and perfected her new face, applying it in intervals. The night was young, and she hopped from bus to bus--dabbing on some lip gloss here or concealer there--until she was unrecognizable. To any passerby, a quick glance would only see a middle-aged woman dragging her feet down the sidewalk, dark hair curtaining her face, hands delicately gloved, eyes shaded by her umbrella as the rain _pitter-patter_ ed on.

She took an unknown number of buses that traveled all across the city, until the last one circled back and landed Ainsley in Coney Island with ten hours to spare and a newfound freedom--there was no job to head off to, no bills to pay, no one to stop her from doing what she liked. The only question was where to go next, and the only thing on Ainsley’s itinerary was The Plan--a plan unbeknownst to her as of right now, but there was plenty of time in the world. It was 5 AM. All she had to do was wait.

No sign greeted Ainsley at the edge of town, but she felt welcomed all the same--and more than that, she felt _ready._ What billboard was able to capture this sort of anticipation?

_Congratulations! You are officially dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might take a little longer as these first two were written before being published.  
> I hope you're enjoying this so far! It's really fun to write Ainsley as a dark character. :)


	3. Cat's in the Cradle

* * *

_well, he came from college just the other day_   
_so much like a man i just had to say_   
_“son, i'm proud of you, can you sit for a while?”_   
_he shook his head, and he said with a smile_   
_“what i'd really like, dad, is to borrow the car keys_   
_see you later, can i have them please?”_

* * *

Jessica was drinking when Malcolm came home.

It didn’t take long to deduce she had broken into both his loft and liquor cabinet; Malcolm recognized the telltale signs of his mother’s arrival: the unlocked door, the clinking in the kitchenette, Sunshine’s persistent alarm. Not to mention Adolpho, waiting patiently outside the apartment building. Malcolm sighed and draped his coat over one of the counter stools.

“I see you found the Cabernet Sauvignon,” he commented.

Jessica didn’t turn to face him. “Oh, don’t chastise me,” she huffed, one elbow on the counter, her shoulders bent over her drink. “I’m surprised you’re still sober yourself. Frankly, this whole thing has been a complete _nightmare_. I was only just getting over that... _animal_ who took you from me last year.”

“Merry Christmas from the Whitly family,” Malcolm replied dryly. “You can have one child, as a treat.”

“Are you working on this case?”

Malcolm chewed on his bottom lip, then shook his head dismally.

“Oh, well that’s probably a good thing,” Jessica sighed. “Gil’s right--you don’t need this right now.”

“Why is everyone treating me like I’m not emotionally equipped to handle this?” Malcolm groaned, sitting down heavily in his chair. “This is my _job.”_

“This is your _sister,”_ Jessica pointed out, her words slightly slurred. “You need to process all of this. You shouldn’t--”

“Let my bias affect the investigation?” Malcolm finished, voice laced with frustration. “It’s not going to.”

“You don’t know that. This is a time to be with family,” Jessica added. “And besides--Gil is sending us a family liaison. I’m _sure_ he or she will tell us everything we need to know.”

“I can find out _more_ if I _help,”_ Malcolm insisted, then paused. An idea crept into his mind. “Or maybe...”

 _“No,”_ Jessica scoffed, before Malcolm could speak. “He is the _last_ thing we need right now.”

But Malcolm had already leapt from his chair, tossing his coat over his shoulder before jogging downstairs and out the door.

* * *

“No visitors allowed,” the desk guard muttered, without looking up from his computer.

Malcolm furrowed his brow. “What? Why? This is important.”

“Unless it’s life-or-death, I can’t let you in, sir. Sorry.”

“I need to speak with Martin Whitly,” Malcolm insisted.

This made the guard look up. “Dr. Whitly is currently turning down any and all visitors,” he said, glancing down at the computer, “except for…”

“Malcolm Bright,” Malcolm sighed, giving the ground a small nod.

“...Are you Malcolm Bright?”

“NYPD,” Malcolm replied, then added sheepishly, “sort of. I need to speak with him on a consultation regarding a current missing persons investigation.”

The guard shook his head before standing in front to pat Malcolm down. “You are to leave _all_ your possessions and unnecessary items in a locked cubicle that I will show you to,” he ordered firmly, “and since this is not a legal matter, Mr. David will be in the room with you and Dr. Whitly at all times. You are not to step over the blue tape. Do you understand?”

“Blue tape?” Malcolm echoed.

“Distance between the inmate and visitor has increased due to recent and confidential events,” the guard replied. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, then concluded, “someone broke out.”

Without replying, the guard led him down the hallways to Martin Whitly’s cell.

Unlike most days, Martin Whitly was not facing the wall when Malcolm buzzed himself in, nor was he brooding at his desk. Instead, he sat stoically on the small cot in the corner of the room, hands twitching impatiently. When he saw Malcolm, he jumped to his feet.

“Malcolm,” he greeted warmly. “I’m afraid the circumstances under which we’re meeting are less than ideal.”

“What do you know?” Malcolm demanded, cutting straight to the chase.

“No season’s greetings?” Martin pouted. “It’s almost Hanukkah.”

“What. Do. You. Know,” Malcolm growled.

“Ooh, touchy,” Martin replied, putting a hand to his chest in mock hurt. He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “Well, then again, I would be too. I _am,”_ he corrected himself, “very touchy. Very touchy, indeed. Did you get them yet?”

“‘ _Them_ ’?”

“Oh, you’re a bit behind on the curve,” Martin replied, straightening. “Let me fill you in.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Malcolm snapped, then steeled himself. Making his father angry was not the way to get information, that was for sure.

“Of course,” Martin agreed, “it’s already been three days. And we all know what tends to happen to kidnapping victims after twenty-four hours, don’t we? Not good, is it?”

Malcolm gritted his teeth. “Who is the ‘them’?”

“There was a little...break-out of sorts,” Martin explained, “just yesterday. Right after the funeral. Did they really let Fischer give the report? Our girl would’ve done _so_ much better.”

“You’re not concerned,” Malcolm noted, “and you’re not even pretending to be worried...why is that?” Without waiting for a reply, he answered the question himself: “You know what happened.”

“I am _shocked_ that you would accuse me of such a thing!” Martin scoffed, eyes glinting. “Although...I do have my... _suspicions_ , if you will.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, isn’t it a _tad_ interesting to find out--believe me, I was appalled!--that the man who slipped out of here yesterday just so happened to be our mutual friend?”

Malcolm straightened. _“John Watkins?”_

Martin clicked his tongue. “Is he still mad about the whole camping thing? I said I was sorry a million times.” He shrugged. “John’s got anger issues, for sure--get everyone picking sides in your own little quarrel? Way to hold a grudge. I hope you’re better at recognizing the signs of a toxic relationship than I was.”

“How did Watkins get out of jail?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Martin shrugged nonchalantly, before his face cracked into a grin. “Okay, _fine,_ a little bird might have dropped by, told me a...lawyer woman was visiting. John’s been setting up a case for months, now. I’m surprised you don’t know.”

“He’s not setting up a case,” Malcolm breathed, the pieces coming together. He glanced back up at Martin. “Do you think _Ainsley_ broke out John Watkins?”

“I don’t know--honest!” Martin insisted, rocking on his feet a bit. “Though, if she _did_ , it does beg the question: _why_ would Ainsley bail out an old friend from jail on the day after she was kidnapped?”

“Because she wasn’t kidnapped,” Malcolm replied. “She’s working _with_ John Watkins. But why?” he added under his breath, more to himself than Martin. “Why would she do that?” Turning back to his father, he demanded: “Do you know where they’re going?”

“Sorry, my boy, that one’s on you,” Martin shrugged. “Though, maybe if you come visit more often…”

“We’re done here,” Malcolm told Mr. David, who nodded. To Martin, he said, “You don’t have anything more for me. Goodbye.”

“Oh, won’t you tell me about your sister?” Martin pleaded. “I worry for her!”

“You’re a psychopath; you don’t care about anyone that doesn’t benefit you,” Malcolm muttered, waiting for the door to buzz open.

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Martin replied, amusement tinging his voice. “Pretty please, come back? Cherry on top?”

Malcolm didn’t say anything more. He left the cell, turned the corner, and walked out of sight. Mr. David closed the door before returning to his seat, expression stoic as ever. Martin moved back to sitting on the edge of the cot, and after a moment of fidgeting, turned back to his guard.

“That’s what I get for not treating my children equally,” he lamented. “And girls are so sensitive. Jessica always told me to be gentler with Ainsley, but I guess I never listened. And now she’s run off with a boy.”

Mr. David simply shrugged.

“Malcolm ran off once, too,” Martin added. “He packed his little rucksack and tried to make it to a friend’s house--Gil, or someone, I think. But I guess he got too tired.” After an almost contemplative pause, he confessed, “My boy’s right, you know; I’m not worried for Ainsley. She’s a very capable woman, and plus, kids run away from home all the time. This is no different.”

And it _wasn’t_ different. He refused to believe that. Because if Watkins had control...

Martin tried not to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Martin! Always fun to throw him in for moving the plot forward! (Even if I always seem to end the scene with him murmuring about his evil shenanagins while leaning back with a satisfied sigh.)


	4. Dazed and Confused

* * *

_been dazed and confused for so long it's not true_   
_wanted a woman, never bargained for you_   
_lots of people talk and few of them know_   
_soul of a woman was created below_

* * *

You’d be surprised at how little you see every day.

Take the diner for example: lazily busy. A rush of humdrum, an easy tension. Crowded with room to walk. Eyes everywhere, all pointed down at their phones or their friends. No one took stock of the missing woman that ordered breakfast at noon, nor the escaped serial killer who joined her at the table.

“You’re early,” Ainsley remarked, as her coffee was poured. “There’s still five hours left.”

“I move quickly,” Watkins replied with an airy smile, as if the two were discussing a slow day at the office. He waved over the waitress and gestured to his empty coffee cup before turning back to Ainsley. “Hiding in plain sight?”

Ainsley nodded. Watkins didn’t say anything more after that, but she could see the question in his eyes, as he pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair.

The waitress—Rose, her name tag said—clicked her pen. “What’ll it be today?”

“Eggs over easy, side of bacon, please,” Watkins replied, smiling briefly at her before turning down to his mug.

Rose nodded. “You want toast with that?”

“Sure thing. Multigrain.”

“Gotcha. And you, hon?”

“Chocolate chip waffle?” Ainsley requested, before breaking the silence between her and her tablemate. “You want to know?”

Rose paid no mind to the second conversation. “Maple syrup?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Watkins shrugged. “I’m curious, as anyone would be. Eager for the truth, you’ll understand.”

“Whipped cream or powdered sugar?” Rose asked.

“Neither, just the syrup is fine,” Ainsley said, before turning back. “Where do I start?”

“That’ll be coming right up, ‘kay?”

“Thank you,” Watkins said with a smile. Rose left, and despite being alone, he lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I understand Endicott visited you in your mother’s house before Malcolm showed up.”

Ainsley furrowed her brow. “That wasn’t in the paper.”

“I never said it was,” Watkins replied nonchalantly. After a moment, he sobered. “What did he do?”

Ainsley shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “He didn’t do anything,” she murmured, fidgeting with a packet of sugar. After a pause, she held it over her cup. “But he... _said_ things.”

Watkins nodded. “So he deserved to die.”

“Malcolm said that, too,” Ainsley mumbled, teasing the edge of the packet open. “I thought he was going to shoot him.”

“But he didn’t,” Watkins concluded.

Ainsley shook her head, bitter tears rising to her eyes. She emptied the packet of sugar into her coffee.

“Where’s the body?”

Ainsley stirred her drink. “In pieces.”

Watkins whistled. “What did your brother have to say about hiding a body?”

“He didn’t,” Ainsley replied simply, the tears now gone. At Watkins’s arched eyebrow, she explained, “because Malcolm doesn’t know I hid his body. And he doesn’t know I killed him.”

The bustling restaurant was suddenly very quiet, despite the fact that none of the diners paused in their speaking.

“...What?” Watkins asked, confused. “He was in the room with you.”

“I know,” Ainsley replied, taking a long sip of her coffee.

“So then...what happened after you killed Endicott?”

Before Ainsley could respond, someone at the nearby table knocked over their drink with a curse. A waiter hurried over with a towel, but hot, thick liquid was already spilling over the sides of the table, landing on the carpet with muffled pats.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Watkins turned back to Ainsley, waiting for an explanation.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Endicott’s blood was the only sound in the house. Ainsley watched it stain the carpet, slide down his face in crimson rivulets, soak through his shirt and pool underneath him._

_Drip. Drip. Drip…_

_It stopped._

_“He’s dead,” Malcolm breathed, not taking his eyes off the body._

_“He’s dead,” Ainsley echoed flatly._

_Her brother glanced up, a trace of concern evident in his eyes. “You’re not scared.”_

_“I’m not,” Ainsley replied. “Endicott is dead. What’s there to be afraid of?”_

_Malcolm stepped forward. “Ainsley...you just_ killed _a man.”_

_“I know.”_

_His breathing picked up. “We have to go to Gil. We have to tell them what happened.” He started forward and grabbed her hand. “Leave the blood on you. We need to—”_

_“No,” Ainsley interrupted, pulling her hand back. “We don’t need to tell Gil.”_

_Malcolm tilted his head back up, a panicked laugh escaping his throat. “Ainsley! Do you know what you just did? Do you...what are you going to do? What are_ we _going to do? Hiding a murdered body isn’t...that’s not how this works! You could get arrested, face even more charges...I have to…”_

_He trailed off, eyes fixed on a certain spot in the air. Ainsley waited, watching him mumble to himself. After a moment, she prompted: “What?”_

_“I have to go to prison,” Malcolm decided, still looking away. “I’m already facing charges for killing Eddie, and...what’s one more murder?” He deflated, realizing the horror of what he just said. “It’s...I have to do this. Let’s go.”_

_“You can’t go to jail, Malcolm!” Ainsley scoffed. “And_ I _can’t go to jail!”_

_“What, then?” Malcolm demanded, his voice raising. “What, we just—no! Ainsley, you don’t understand!”_

_“I_ do _understand!” Ainsley yelled back. Malcolm flinched, eyes wide, and she calmed herself. “I understand that you’re one of the NYPD’s most valuable consultants. I’m one of the best investigative journalists in this city. Sort of,” she added, then continued. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we can solve this.”_

_Malcolm exhaled, harsh and shaky. “I’m not doing this, Ainsley. I’m sorry.”_

_“You just said you’d help me!” Ainsley accused, moving her hands to her hips._

_“I’m not helping you get away with murder!” Malcolm shot back. “The justice system...this could be self-defense, insanity, maybe, but look at him! Seven stab wounds! Slit throat! No defensive wounds on you, or on me! No attempt to resuscitate or call an ambulance! That’s overkill! Rage-fueled aggression! This whole scene screams psychotic! How the hell is a jury going to give you any leverage?”_

_“Oh, so you’re_ blaming _me?” Ainsley hissed._

_“I’m NOT—” Malcolm started to shout, then stopped abruptly, pressing his trembling palms into his eyes. When he spoke again, he sounded weaker.“I’m...not blaming you.” He swallowed, trying to stifle the sob that was rising in the back of his throat._

_Good. Ainsley had control again. She walked forward and wordlessly wrapped her arms around Malcolm, who now stood paralyzed with his hands over his face and his shoulders hunched into his body._

_Ainsley took a few steps forward, her brother still in her embrace. They moved back until their knees touched the cushions, and Malcolm sank down, bending forward until his forehead rested on his thighs. Ainsley crouched in front of him._

_“It’s okay,” Malcolm said breathlessly. “It’s okay. I have to do this.”_

_“It’s gonna be okay,” Ainsley agreed, playing with his hair. “We’ll figure this out. You’re right—let’s call Gil.”_

_Malcolm nodded into his legs. “Okay.”_

_“Okay.” And then Ainsley slid the glass ashtray off the table and brought it down hard, striking him in the temple._

_Surprised, Malcolm jumped off the couch, stumbling. A small line of blood trailed down the side of his face, and without hesitating, Ainsley grabbed him again, hit him again, and again, until more blood started to flow and Malcolm’s attempts to restrain her ceased._

_Ainsley waited until Malcolm’s eyes fluttered, then closed. After making sure his chest was rising and falling softly, she set to work._

_Fifteen minutes later, Gil showed up at the house, gun drawn. For the second time in her life, Ainsley watched red and blue lights dapple the ground, streak the walls, stretch her shadow, and was just as pretty as the first time._

_“What the hell?” Gil muttered, making his way into the living room. “Bright?” Malcolm didn’t stir. “Bright._ Malcolm _.”_ _He holstered his weapon and moved to the side of the couch. “Shit! What the hell happened?”_

_Ainsley’s voice shook. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “I don’t—oh, my God. Is he okay?”_

_Gil brought his radio to his mouth. “This is Arroyo responding to a call at the Whitly residence, upper East side. I have backup, but I need EMS immediately. There’s a deceased male on scene as well, if you could notify someone.”_

_“10-4,” the comm buzzed back, before beeping twice. Gil turned his attention back to Malcolm, and Ainsley started forward, but he held his hand up to stop her._

_“Bright, can you hear me? It’s Gil,” he called loudly. “Malcolm, talk to me. Look at me. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”_

_No response. Gil cursed again and moved to put pressure on the side of Malcolm’s head. A few more minutes went by, tense and silent, as another pair of officers rushed through the house, shouting a “Clear!” every so often._

_“Wh…”_

_Ainsley craned her head, trying to see Malcolm as he twitched._

_“Bright,” Gil said, raising his voice. “Bright, can you hear me?”_

_Malcolm laid where he was, blinking lethargically at the ceiling as his slurred words trailed off with a weak “Wh’...ppned?”_

_“Stay awake,” Gil ordered. “Right here, Bright. It’s Gil. What’s your first name? Do you know where you are?”_

_Malcolm didn’t reply. Blood started to seep from his nose, and he gagged once before falling still again. The EMTs and coroners were here now, shooting jargon at each other as they ushered Gil and Ainsley to the side and worked over Malcolm._

_Ainsley allowed herself to sob once and wrap her arms around Gil. “Is he okay?”_

_“He’s gonna be okay,” Gil murmured weakly, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. Ainsley heaved a sigh of relief—two bodies on the scene wasn’t a lot to work with—and leaned into the embrace._

_Malcolm’s head continued to bleed, coating the side of his face red, spotting the backboard, falling to the floor._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Watkins tapped his fork against his plate expectantly.

_Drip. Drip. Drip…_

It stopped. The last of the coffee was mopped up, and Ainsley turned her attention back to the table. In front of her was a plate of waffles.

“Well?” Watkins prompted again.

“After Endicott assaulted Malcolm,” Ainsley said, pouring syrup over her waffles, “he was murdered and my brother attacked by the killer. I arrived only moments after the attacks. The hitman is unknown and on the run, and Malcolm has no recollection of the event. Endicott is exposed and the press is calling it an assassination. Some are even blaming Russia.”

Watkins hummed approvingly. “Righteous.”

“Clean case,” Ainsley replied, taking a bite of her food. After some thoughtful chewing, she finally asked: “Now what? Why are we all the way across the state?”

Watkins straightened. “Pay in cash,” he ordered. “We’re going to take a bus somewhere and walk a little bit.”

“Specify?”

“I’ve got a place,” Watkins replied vaguely, his cheek twitching. “It’s time for your trials.”

“My trials?” Ainsley echoed.

Watkins nodded. “Oh, yes, Ainsley. Your trials.” A sly grin spread across his face. “We have a lot of work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No talking about murder at the breakfast table, Ainsley.


	5. Superstition

* * *

_very superstitious_   
_wash your face and hands_   
_rid me of the problem_   
_do all that you can_   
_keep me in a daydream_   
_keep me going strong_   
_you don't want to save me_   
_sad is my song_

* * *

Humans have a sixth sense, everyone knows. But there’s something about having a child—whether yours or not—that gives you _more_ awareness than that. And when you include the fact that said child is a complete danger magnet, your sixth sense heightens a little bit more.

“A little bit” as in a lot.

This was why Gil could tell something was wrong before Dani even entered the station. 

The precinct was not very busy. Outside, rain hit the windows, giving everyone a steady, thrumming beat to work to and melting the frost on the windows. A very exasperated Dani pushed through the glass doors and shrugged off her jacket despite the damp chill in the air. She stopped in front of Gil’s office and knocked on the open door.

Without glancing up from his paperwork, the latter sighed, “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Dani nodded. “I tried to tell him.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Gil assured her, though the rest of that statement was left unsaid: _even though nothing either of us will say to him has the power to change his mind._

And that was correct.

“You have to let me work this!” Malcolm protested, as he was steered out the door by the shoulder. “Gil, please! I can help!”

“Kid, you already know why you can’t do this,” Gil replied firmly, loosening his hold now that they were outside.

Malcolm shook him off. “I get it,” he said, “I’m too close. I _know_. But that’s a good thing! You _need_ me,” he added, pointing an accusatory finger at Gil. “I know what happened to Ainsley.” When he only received silence, Malcolm declared, “Watkins is with her.”

This got Gil’s attention. “Watkins? _John_ Watkins—the guy who tortured you?”

Malcolm nodded. “I think Ainsley broke him out of prison and faked her death.”

“Who told you this?” Gil demanded, but before Malcolm could speak, he answered the question himself. “Your father.”

“He saw them! He _witnessed_ it!”

“And you believed him?” Gil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bright, you know how far-fetched it sounds, even for Martin Whitly. The brass is never gonna let us work this angle.”

“It’s the truth!” Malcolm insisted. “And it makes sense.”

“How? _How_ does that make sense?” Gil demanded. “ _How_ did Ainsley get three pints of her own blood to look like _that_ , and _how_ was she able to break a serial killer out of a _maximum security psychiatric facility?_ This isn’t even like her—you know that. So tell me why your theory works.”

Malcolm hesitated.

Gil put his hands on his hips. “See what I mean?”

“I just have to figure it out,” Malcolm insisted softly, slumping his shoulders in defeat. “You have to let me.” The rain started to fall harder, but he didn’t react to it; only pushed his sopping hair away from his face. “Gil, I _know_ something isn’t right. Ever since Endicott…”

It was as if the name alone caused a flash of pain searing across his temples. Malcolm bit the inside of his cheek.

Gil noticed. “Still getting headaches?”

“Post-concussion syndrome works like that.”

“It’s been nine months. This stress isn’t good for you.”

Malcolm broke eye contact. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Gil sighed, “you’re always fine.” He brought his hand to Malcolm’s trapezius and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get you home.”

“Hey! Are you Ainsley’s brother?”

The pair turned to see a man hurrying towards them, and he looked frantic—quick strides; heaving breaths; one hand hugging something square under his coat and the other shielding his eyes against the rain. Gil took a step forward and Malcolm tried to see the stranger from over his shoulder.

“What’s your name?” Gil asked, at the same time that Malcolm gaped, “Jin?”

Gil turned to Malcolm. “Jin?”

“Jin,” the man confirmed. “I’m Ainsley’s...colleague.” After a moment’s hesitation, he slid the package out from under his coat. It was a small shoebox. “There’s something you need to see.”

* * *

“We’re running the hair for Ainsley’s DNA,” Edrisa announced. “I can tell you right now, though: there are at least two seprate sets of fingerprints on that box.”

“It’s not him,” Malcolm decided, looking through the window. Inside the conference room, JT sat opposite Jin, who squirmed in his seat. “Look at how he’s acting. He had no idea that the shoebox existed until he found it.”

“He could be faking it,” Dani mused, stepping beside him. “Does he have a motive?”

“Oh, he _totally_ does,” Edrisa piped up. Malcolm turned to look at her. “What? I have connections, too.”

“What sort of connections?” Malcolm asked skeptically.

Edrisa blushed. “Very intimate connections,” she stammered, “that are no longer existent nor related to this conversation.” Dani cleared her throat exaggeratedly. “Anyway! Jin and Ainsley broke up last year.”

“What? Why?” Malcolm asked—and to himself, he was puzzled. Why hadn’t Ainsley told him this information? Did she not deem it important; just another fling? Or was there some more serious and ulterior motive? Did it have anything to do with what was happening now?

Edrisa shrugged. “No idea. Do you think he did it?”

“Let’s find out,” Dani said, gesturing back to the room, where JT pushed the door open with a shake of his head.

“Dude’s not cracking,” he huffed, “but there’s something real weird going on.”

“You can say that again,” Gil called as he entered the precinct. In his hand was a file. “I’ve got no security footage from the apartment. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dani echoed, confusion furrowing her brow.

Malcolm, on the other hand, remained stoic. “Someone must’ve tampered with the footage,” he concluded.

Gil heaved a frustrated sigh. “We can’t determine that,” he pointed out.

“Let me talk to him,” Malcolm begged. “I need to know what happened!”

Gil shook his head, impatience creeping onto his features. “How many times, Bright? You _cannot. Work. This case._ ”

“Yes I _can!”_ Malcolm argued, raising himself on his toes. “You know I can do this! I can _solve_ this! We need to find Ainsley’s location; we need to figure out what Watkins is planning; we need to know—”

“Bright, cool it,” Gil snapped, holding a hand up to silence him. It worked. “You’re not in a state to do anything right now, and I’m not just talking about the concussion.”

Malcolm’s expression darkened, bitterness creeping onto his features. “Oh, what? Is it my _emotions?_ Is _that_ the problem—I’m too unstable?” Dani started to speak, but he cut her off. “Guess what? You’re right! I _am_ unstable. I haven’t slept in days! I haven’t eaten since yesterday! Why? Because my _sister_ is running off with a _serial killer_ who tried to _murder my family!”_

Gil pointed to the door. “Take a walk. And calm down.”

Malcolm stood his ground. “We need to talk to colleagues. We need to talk to Claremont.”

“Go home. That’s an order, Bright.”

“Fine!” Malcolm exploded, slamming a shaky fist against his thigh. “But when you find someone _dead_ , no one can blame me. Not this time.”

With that, he stormed out, ignoring the stares of the other officers and leaving the team silent save for one collective thought: _What the hell just happened?_

“He’s had a rough year,” Edrisa offered weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of adding another scene to this, but wondered about length. Would you guys prefer longer chapters? Please let me know!


	6. Carry On Wayward Son

* * *

_masquerading as a man with a reason_   
_my charade is the event of the season_   
_and if i claim to be a wise man, well_   
_it surely means that i don't know_   
_on a stormy sea of moving emotion_   
_tossed about i'm like a ship on the ocean_   
_i set a course for winds of fortune_   
_but i hear the voices say..._

* * *

The rain was starting to cease now, as the train slowed to a stop just outside Coney Island. Ainsley and Watkins rode in complete silence on opposite ends of the train, glancing at each other occasionally, words unspoken.

 _Are we there yet?_ Ainsley asked, with eyes that glinted like an excited child.

Watkins allowed her an amused smirk. _Not yet._ Then he blinked. _Soon._ Again. _Next stop, in fact._

Next stop, indeed. The train creaked, gears protesting against the muddy, rusted rails, then stopped completely. A well-dressed man with a smart mustache stepped off the train shortly after a slim, dark-haired woman made her way briskly through the station, gabbing about tax cuts on her burner phone. No one would remember the pair; no one would say a word of them; and most of all, no one knew that these strangers were on the phone with each other.

The topic of conversation: instructions.

“ _Here’s what will happen,_ ” Watkins directed Ainsley, as the latter pushed past commuters through the busy station. “ _After we leave within a few minutes of each other, you’re going to walk to a train station called The Junction. Take it all the way to Jersey.”_

“New Jersey?” Ainsley wondered aloud. “What’s in New Jersey?”

Watkins dodged the question. “ _I_ _’ll meet you at the station to pick you up. I can get a car._ ”

“You need an ID to rent a car.”

“ _I never said I was renting. Pay attention.”_

Ainsley allowed a moment of surprise. “Then what?” she pressed.

No response. Watkins had already disconnected the call. 

* * *

The second stranger tucked his own burner phone in his pocket and veered a wide left turn, towards the other exit in the train station.

Outside, the traffic was light and the clouds were starting to clear, sunlight bounced off the store windows and stole the moisture from the sidewalk. Watkins threw on a pair of sunglasses to shield his eyes from the glare and kept moving with purposeful, wide strides.

In his pocket was a switchblade. But he did not use it.

Malcolm Bright’s profile was accurate that way—Watkins preferred not to get his hands dirty. Pulling the _trigger_ , thrusting the _knife_...all so gravitational, like a stone dropping to the bottom of a shallow lake— _plunk._ These were heavy kills; too thick and close for anyone’s liking, no matter what Martin said.

Yet there was something else, something more about the _pulling_ and the _thrusting_ that sent a ripple up Watkins’s spine. He loved the _feel_ of it: action; smoothness. To Watkins, a good kill was like a job well done—the swinging bag and whooshing air brought seconds after a punch. There’s no need for bloody knuckles if you know where to hit.

And Watkins _did_ know where to hit. All that should exist when doing a job like this is the before and after, with a space in between—a space that must remain blank at all times, lest anyone start to pay attention.

But now, no one was paying attention. Watkins slid a hand in his pocket and toyed with the switchblade, flicking it open, snapping it shut. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes darted upwards and around—no cameras—before darting back down to meet the gaze of a shadowy, bulky figure standing on the end of the sidewalk. He turned down the corner and trailed down the street until he squeezed past a rusty chain link fence. Watkins followed.

You will recall his connections in the junkyard industry.

And so it was that the two strangers met for the third time that day, as one idled on a train station platform and the other rolled up in a station wagon that he has driven before. The sun was setting, but that made for better, more concealed traveling.

“Back seat,” Watkins directed.

Ainsley obeyed. “Where to?”

Her companion didn’t answer at first; he only swept the sunglasses off his face and tossed them into the glove compartment, before turning back to drum his fingers on the steering wheel. A few _rap-rap-raps_ later, however, Watkins’s expression turned thoughtful and vaguely reminiscent. He tilted the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Ainsley, and when he spoke, there was a mysterious air to his tone:

“What do you know about the camping trip?”

* * *

Malcolm pushed through the glass doors of the precinct and made a sharp turn to the right, walking briskly. He didn’t know where he was going; the only thought in his mind was the harsh slapping of his feet against the sidewalk and the pounding headache that was starting to fray the edges of his vision.

Gil was wrong. _Everyone_ was wrong—why couldn’t they see that? What made everyone so oblivious to the evidence that was staring them right in the face? Jin and Ainsley must have broken up months ago

_I’m doing my job. You do yours._

after the interview with Martin. That much was obvious, but what else? The old Ainsley was left behind that day, in Martin’s cell. If only someone else had been there with them, someone that could have witnessed the change that, as of now, only Malcolm seemed to realize ever existed.

Unfortunately, that _someone_ was currently being interrogated.

There was no time to wait. But there was still something missing…

_What just_

“Ainsley,” Malcolm breathed, spinning around to face the voice. “Ainsley?”

There was no one there.

_What just_

“What just,” Malcolm echoed to himself, trying to dig for the context. He came up empty. What was Ainsley saying? When had she said it? He detected a trace of fear in that memory. So why couldn’t

_And why can’t_

Why couldn’t he remember?

_And why can’t you remember?_

The ache in his brain raised to a harsh drumming in his ears. Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and gripped tightly, trying to control himself. Control what, though? What triggered this feeling, this memory—this _recent_ memory, he was sure of it. He was _sure_ of it.

_A gun_

_Not a hair_

_Breaking glass_

_You should really_

_Have to go to_

_Fingers rippling on the_

_No you won’t_

_Eyes flicking_

_get that._

“Get what?” Malcolm asked aloud. The people and voices blurred; it was hard to tell what had been spoken and what had been observed. If he could just _think_ and _remember_ something, things might be easy. He could solve this.

But that was the problem: solve _what?_

What part of

_I’m your subconscious! Your ego._

What part of his subconscious was forcing him to connect this gap and Ainsley’s disappearance?

_Call me whatever you want. Just STOP IGNORING_

_STOP IGNO_

_STOP_

_STOP IT!_

_Silver light_

_Phone ringing_

_No you won’t I_

_Dripping_

_You may have_

_Flashing lights_

_What just_

_Things are_

_Arms on his back_

_STOP IT!_

_You deserve_

_I deserve the Surgeon’s pain._

Wrong memory. Malcolm sank down on a concrete staircase and buried his face in his hands—but wait. There was something about this wrong memory—something that felt important about The Surgeon. The Surgeon. The _Surgeon._

_Malcolm, my boy!_

_And why can’t you_

_Multiple outrages_

_Shop talk_

_Thy treasure for thy widow!_

_Guy’s weekend and_

_There was no_

_Should we do_

_Which answer do you_

_Things are looking up._

_Things are looking up._

_Things are looking up._ That was one sentence, albeit garbled. Malcolm scratched hard at the back of his neck and thrust his head between his knees. He needed to know. He needed to _know._ Things were up for Martin Whitly. Why? Why was he pleased? Why wasn’t anyone else?

Maybe Malcolm could pick through the sinewy pieces of his lost memory; maybe he could try and take the unfamiliar phrases swimming around in his mind and stick them together to form something whole. What happened? _What happened?_ What happened on that day—and _which_ day was it?

_Camping trip_

_The girl_

_Stabbed him_

_Find me_

_What just happened_

_In that junkyard_

_Tried to kill us_

_At the crime scene_

_In the precinct_

“Stop it,” Malcolm whispered weakly. “Stop it. I’m not looking for that.”

_STOP IT! Things are looking up. You deserve_

He needed to line it up. He needed to figure it out. It was the only way—an urge that was, as of yet, unfamiliar, because _why_ was that the only way? What sort of answers would he get from unearthing this?

_STOP IT! Things are looking up. Silver light. Red light. Not a hair._ Rearrange. _Not a hair. Silver light. STOP IT! Red light. Things are looking up._ No. _Things are looking up. Red light. Sirens. Multiple sirens._

_Sirens._

_Malcolm._

_Tonight the serial killer known_

_What just happened?_

_Phone._

_Want you to_

_Did you find_

_Ashtray_

_Dripping_

_Real hero_

_You should really get_

_You deserve_

_Lights and sirens_

_Arms somewhere_

_Distant shouting_

_I will always love you._

_Because we’re the same._

This wasn’t working; the few bits he was able to gather spilled and drifted amongst his other memories like dust in the wind. Malcolm bit back a frustrated growl and sprung off the steps, pacing back and forth. Someone bumped into him, and someone else squirmed away, but he didn’t pay attention to it. The only thing that mattered was trying to figure out the

_What just happened?_

And trying to figure out how this related to

_Ainsley._

Someone called his name. Someone real? Did it even matter? 

“Bright!”

No, it didn’t. All that mattered was finding Ainsley.

“Kid, wait up!”

“Start at the beginning,” Malcolm decided aloud. “Then you can figure out the rest later.”

“Malcolm!”

Malcolm didn’t reply. He turned the corner and walked away.

_It’s going to be okay._

But it wasn’t okay. That much he did know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Get in, loser, we’re going serial killing!”
> 
> This fic is probably going to be temporary on hold as I do Whumptober. I hope you enjoy that, though, if you decide to read it! :)


	7. Goody Two Shoes

* * *

_look out or they'll tell you, you're a superstar_   
_two weeks and you're an all-time legend_   
_i think the games have gone much too far_   
_if the words unspoken_   
_get stuck in your throat_   
_send a treasure token, token_   
_write it on a pound note, pound note_

* * *

“I don’t think he knows anything,” Dani murmured, crossing her arms as the door of the interrogation room clicked shut again. On the other side of the glass wall, Jin put his head in his hands, foot bouncing against the ground as he was coming to terms with what the shoebox meant for him.

“The others don’t seem to think that,” JT replied next to her, scrubbing a hand over his face. “As far as they’re concerned, we’ve got a murderer who couldn’t stay in the kitchen when it got hot.” He paused for a moment, studying their suspect, before suggesting, “Maybe they’re right. Dude’s acting weird.”

“I would be too, if I found a shoebox covered in the hair of my missing ex-girlfriend,” Dani pointed out, “and especially if I wasn’t the one who put it there.”

JT mulled this over with a now thoughtful expression. “Do we know anything else about Ainsley’s or Jin’s love life? Maybe they were still gettin’ it on when a new partner entered the picture.”

“Sex is the oldest motive in the book,” Dani agreed. “I’ll see if—”

Her words were cut off by the harsh noise of the precinct door being pushed open in a rush, letting in both Gil and the sound of heavy foot traffic. Dani and JT turned to see their boss hurrying to his office and dialing the phone; wordlessly, they followed him to see what had happened.

“—need an APB on Malcolm Bright,” Gil was saying into the phone. Dani and JT exchanged a glance. “He’s one of my guys...yeah, that’s him—I know, and he’s not in a good state of mind—more so, definitely more so—at a guess, he’s going to be...yep, I know, could you—thanks, Mike...no, not yet. I don’t need to worry her...great. I owe you.”

Sighing, he hung up the phone and took a moment to hang his head, leaning on the desk with his palms flat. Without raising his head, he told his team, “Bright’s in the wind. I think he’s going to try and look for Ainsley. I just asked Jessica’s liaison to keep her safe.”

JT groaned. “The _one_ time we need a profiler, and he’s…” His hand blossomed out from a fist, as if he was dispersing something into the air. “Poof.”

“What else?” Dani pressed, noticing the way Gil was holding back.

As if on cue, Gil gestured to the small television that poised in the corner of the precinct, where Neil Fischer, inaudible, stood outside Claremont Psychiatric, the headline underneath him screaming: _GARAGE SALE: JUNKYARD KILLER ON THE LOOSE?_

Dani frowned. “He doesn’t think…?”

“Oh, he _definitely_ does,” Gil huffed, agitated. He glanced across the bullpen at Jin, who was raking his hands through his hair and glancing around him, waiting for someone to let him go. “And thanks to this, I’m starting to believe him.”

JT furrowed his brow. “Gil, the guy walked in with the biggest lead on Ainsley’s case besides the crime scene. We can just let him go.”

“We’re not,” Gil muttered, thinking it all over. “We have twenty-four hours; he’s bound to give us something before then.”

“Problem is,” Dani added ominously, “if he has nothing, we’re going to have to welcome the possibility that the _real_ biggest lead walked _out.”_

Gil wondered which sibling she was referring to.

* * *

_Haunted._ That’s what the camping trip was, Ainsley decided upon entering the cabin. It was hard not to describe it like an article; she’d spent so many months creeping past law enforcement to take a peek like places like this, and now, here she was, in the lion’s den. God knew how many heinous acts had been committed here.

Ainsley could feel Watkins smiling behind her as she dusted his fingers over the creaky dresser that stood in the corner; as she slipped off her shoes and felt the rug, which was cool and soft from years of unuse. The cabin door closed with a slow _crrrrrrck-click_ and Ainsley fiddled with the stiff light switch, flicking it on, then off when the bulb stayed dark.

“We won’t be using this room,” Watkins assured her, sweeping his own gaze around the cabin. He took in a deep breath and let it out. “Feels like yesterday I was in here, young and…” He leaned over to pluck a small jar from the dresser, running his finger over the lip. “Carefree.”

“Why here?” Ainsley couldn’t help but ask. “If they ever make the connection, this might be one of the first places they look.”

A smirk flickered across Watkins’s face; Ainsley was familiar with the slightly condescending expression that told her he thought she was an amateur. Pushing down her pride, Ainsley batted her eyes expectantly; pushing down his arrogance, Watkins replied, “We have time. God is on our side.”

“I don’t know if I believe in God,” Ainsley mused.

Watkins paused, looking thoughtful. “We can change that.”

* * *

The Channel 14 news station was a flurry of activity. Malcolm noted the upped security by the front door and strolled right through the metal detector without bothering to take out his phone, wallet, or watch; the light flashed green. A faulty detector meant it was put up in a rush; likely, it was there mostly for show. Paranoia or public image?

_You cannot go forward with this interview._

_Father’s on live television_

_Major charity event, the Nicholas Endicott Endowment for the Arts_

Pushing away the thoughts, Malcolm skirted a group of reporters and moved through the crowd of tech staff with his awareness high. There was someone he remembered; someone who seemed close to Ainsley when Cory Wheaton had called the station as The Carousel Killer.

Lindsay was in a rush; Malcolm had to chase after her to get close enough to tap her. When she spun around, a few papers went flying, and she glowered.

“Hi,” Malcolm said sheepishly.

“Who are you?” Lindsay snapped, then stopped abruptly, recognition filling her gaze. “Oh, my God. You’re—you’re Ainsley’s brother.” She set down her files, looking awkward. “I’m so…”

“I know,” Malcolm replied quickly, then paused as a searing pain shot through his head. The lights and the voices and the chaos weren’t good, he wagered, and Lindsay’s brow furrowed with concern.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I—”

Wait. Maybe there was something he could do that would loosen Lindsay’s tongue.

“No,” Malcolm corrected himself, voice dropping. _Play off the connection._ “I...I’m really struggling, Lindsay.”

“Hon,” Lindsay whispered, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “I know. It’s hard.” But she seemed to remember that she and Malcolm had only interacted twice, so the hand restricted, and she said, “Is there something you...need from me?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm, replied, trying to make his voice choke up. Not that hard, considering he knew how it felt. “I, um, just need to ask you some questions. About her. And I—I miss her.”

“Of course,” Lindsay nodded. “Let’s—um—follow me, I’ll give us some privacy.”

So it was that Malcolm found himself half-fake-crying into the shoulder of a woman he barely knew on a couch in Ainsley’s newsroom. Once he had worked up some sort of meager rapport, he cut to the chase. “I was just...I need to figure this out. At the NYPD. I asked them if I could do this, because I’m...you know.”

“What is it?”

“I need the truth,” Malcolm explained, “about Ainsley. How she was before...this.”

Lindsay frowned. “Why?”

“Just, please. I need to know…” Better risk venturing about it. “...if she was seeing anyone. Acting different. I know she was weird lately.”

He could almost hear Dr. Whitly praising him for lying.

But it was worth it; in that moment, Lindsay shifted, tear tracks gone, as the gossip overcame the grief and she told him, “Ainsley was different.” She held up her fingers like a peace sign. “Two words for you: _Cut. Throat. Bitch.”_

_What just happened?_

_Things are looking up._

“You got that right,” Malcolm found himself saying, without knowing why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand we’re back!!!!!
> 
> So maybe one month turned into three...sorry about that. Luckily, I’m starting up again. This chapter was pretty short; I was trying to get back into the swing of things. I hope the writing ‘feels’ the same here, if that makes sense.
> 
> Thanks for sticking through the hiatus, and thanks for reading, as always!


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